


And These Violent Delights have Violent Ends

by Musicandjason



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Mourning, Saddness, Tumblr made me do it, jim kills an escort, they love eachother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:44:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1843093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musicandjason/pseuds/Musicandjason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He did not go to the gravesite for the burial, because that made it real. Instead he went back to one of his flats, with a 24 pack of Dos Equis (because that was what his sniper loved) and called an escort service. They sent over a tall, brown haired man, and in a drunken rage Jim killed him. He spent the night in the bathroom alternating between emptying liquid from his stomach into the toilet and playing in the hooker’s blood. He went to bed without getting off and stayed there for two days.</p>
<p>On the third day, he got out of bed, put on a pair of grey sweatpants, a plain white t-shirt, and one of Sebastian’s hoodies that had been laying around the flat and left. The sandals that he had put on his feet made a flip flop noise as he added to his 2015 Bentley Mulsanne and got in. He drove in complete silence to the graveyard, his hair standing on end; for the first time in years he had left the house without looking at himself in a mirror. All those other days he had a goal to work towards. Today, he didn’t have Sherlock, and he didn’t have Sebastian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And These Violent Delights have Violent Ends

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this post on tumblr: http://mrswritermonkey.tumblr.com/post/89205259600/the-doctor-in-baker-street-im-not-strong
> 
> I keep doing terrible things to them. and i can't help it. i'm not even sorry.

Jim Moriarty was confident he had planned everything out in his Great Game. So much so that he even had a death plan. Which, regrettably, he had ended up using. He still wouldn’t get into details about how he had swallowed a bullet from a gun and leaked brain matter on the roof of St. Barts, and still lived, because the best magician’s never show their hands. But maybe there was one person who had deserved to see his hand. Because the bullet Sebastian Moran had planned for John Watson was used on himself when hearing that his boss was dead.

They had been lovers for several years, but in a non-conventional way. Jim occasionally brought home women (never men) to their flats, although never to their main residence. That bed was always theirs alone. They had sex when it suited them, and killed people when it did not. Jim would not have called Sebastian his boyfriend but there was a loyalty that permeated their motions in a way that neither man would describe to anyone.

Jim had obviously underestimated the effect that his ‘death’ would have on his sniper, because when he went to collect him from their main home, he found it torn apart in a way he wasn’t expecting. The furniture was upside down, and everything that was glass was broken. And Sebastian was lying on the carpet in their bedroom, blood staining the ivory coloured carpeting. Once his best extraction team had come and gathered up his beautiful Irishman, he burned the house to the ground. He watched it crumble, wishing he had been more trusting, or more loyal to the man who killed people for him.

Jim held a private ceremony and had a Roman Catholic priest bless and absolve the dead man of all his sins. There was something calming to Jim in his long abandoned religion, and not that he believed in heaven or hell but he hoped that it gave him some peace. The only thing that gave Jim any peace were the tears that rolled down his cheeks while he was standing next to the coffin, saying goodbye. He tried to focus on the dragon lilies, but failed. All he could notice was how mad his lover’s face looked post-mortem.

He did not go to the gravesite for the burial, because that made it real. Instead he went back to one of his flats, with a 24 pack of Dos Equis (because that was what his sniper loved) and called an escort service. They sent over a tall, brown haired man, and in a drunken rage Jim killed him. He spent the night in the bathroom alternating between emptying liquid from his stomach into the toilet and playing in the hooker’s blood. He went to bed without getting off and stayed there for two days.

On the third day, he got out of bed, put on a pair of grey sweatpants, a plain white t-shirt, and one of Sebastian’s hoodies that had been laying around the flat and left. The sandals that he had put on his feet made a flip flop noise as he added to his 2015 Bentley Mulsanne and got in. He drove in complete silence to the graveyard, his hair standing on end; for the first time in years he had left the house without looking at himself in a mirror. All those other days he had a goal to work towards. Today, he didn’t have Sherlock, and he didn’t have Sebastian.

His tires spit gravel as he pulled into the small parking lot and slammed the beautiful automobile into park. The walk to the polished gray granite headstone was short and he knew the way well, as the sniper was buried in the Moriarty family plot. He was tucked in right next to where Jim would be when he finally went down in his blaze of glory. He was lucky that he had no other family or he was sure that there would have been problems. But he was truly all alone, so he could do as he pleased.

“Hey.” Jim felt a bit stupid talking to a hunk of rock, but if this was what normal people did to get closure it would be what he tried. “I guess I should tell you that I’m not actually dead.”

He choked those words out, with a rush of emotion hitting him like a tidal wave. Jim’s knees buckled and he fell forward, resting against the grave stone and using the flowers that were placed there as a cushion for his knees. His chest was heaving, wracked with sobs, and he rested his forehead on the cold stone. “You always were the impatient one though, weren’t you?”

Jim stayed there for a long while, just crying and murmuring to his long-time friend and confidant. Finally, when he was sure that he had no more tears to cry and his voice was hoarse from wretched whispers, he got up, standing in front of the grave stone knowing it would be the last time, just as it had been with his mother and father.

“Sleep tight, Tiger.” And with that he walked away. 


End file.
